‘Why am I a gift to the world? Well … I’m intelligent, I’m a good friend, I’m funny (oh god, why don’t you marry yourself) … I’m insightful … I invest a lot in my friendships, I’m a good friend (you said that one already) ...’

A minute is a very long time to tell strangers, hell, anyone, why you are a gift to the world. I thought I was nailing it for the first twenty seconds. But by the end I had well and truly spiralled into awkwardness. This was our first exercise on the retreat.

Afterwards, people relayed back to us what they were hearing – ‘You’re obviously a good friend. And intelligent and creative …’

And then they told us what they were seeing.

‘You couldn’t look us in the eye. I think you were holding your breath.’

I’ve never thought to go on a ‘retreat’ before because they were, I thought, predominantly for the spiritual – which I am not. Something people who visited psychics and believed in karma did. A tune-up for the soul.

But Susan’s book about ‘banning busy and making space for what matters’, was such an intriguing mix of neuroscience, mindfulness and philosophy that I thought there was little chance that their retreat involved too many healing crystals or blood rituals.

And I was feeling pretty aimless in my writing career and needed something to break me out of my funk. I was doing surprisingly little writing for a writer, squandering my free time on bad habits that involved Netflix, wine, reading, shopping and laundry.

So, basically, I was in need of some intervention and inspiration – and this seemed like a good shot at some. And, hell, if it well went spectacularly weird and wrong, there’d be material in that too.

Cut to some months, and plenty of fretting, later and I’m sitting around a coffee table in Noosa with nine other people – ready for our introspective journey to begin.

Everyone shared what they wanted to get out of the retreat – to find the courage to branch out in their career or reclaim some down-time within a busy routine of raising children. It was all pretty relatable stuff.

I had grappled with this question myself over a few pre-retreat email exchanges with Susan. And the best I could come up with was that I wanted some clarity around what I should do next, career-wise.

But perhaps it was the incense in the air, or the serene bushland surroundings, because when my moment came, I upped the ante (feeling the need to stretch myself before the inevitable post-retreat contraction). ‘I guess I want to know what my purpose is,’ I said sheepishly.

I wrote it down on a piece of paper – what is my purpose? – and placed it on the table.

On day two I had to sing for everyone – a personalised fear experience that was earmarked for me after my stage-fright came up in conversation. It was an intense fear that had caused me to give up singing in the first place and move into a more introverted form of creativity – writing. In fact, and I don’t think I realised it until recently, but my stage fright had started to pervade areas of my working life.
‘Heaven, I’m in heaven … and the cares that hung around me through the week …’ The first few verses came out shakily and eventually I completely crumbled, the song dying in my throat.

Many of us know the adage feel the fear and do it anyway but we don’t often get to practice it away from the ‘real world’. This was my chance to get hands-on with fear – to spot it, disrupt it and re-wire it.
I followed instructions – identify where the stress is – my breathing, my throat, my racing heart. Disrupt it – breathe in for two, hold for one, breathe out for three. And re-wire it – it’s ok to be nervous, I thought, I can take a moment and then keep going.

And I did. There better be some shiny new wiring in that part of my brain now.

For the rest of the retreat, Wendy – a pilates instructor from Melbourne who had an ah-ma-zing dance challenge in store for her fear-based exercise – and I launched into song every time we got a drop of wine into us. A few of us remarked on this effect during the retreat, how one person’s experience could have a vicarious effect on others. As I tried to reclaim my voice, I had unleashed Wendy’s.

What is my purpose? 

Over the course of the next few days we went about approaching our questions from every angle – we journaled, discussed, wished and mapped. We even collaged. All the while using a toolbox of philosophical, scientific and semi-spiritual ideas to help get us there – from guided meditations to trying to find our Ikigai (a Japanese concept that roughly means ‘reason for being’).

Much to my surprise, the shyness I felt on the first day had quickly evaporated and I wholeheartedly embraced the new friendships, tough questions and sometimes-awkward exercises. The toughest part for me was when the conversation strayed from science and psychology into spirituality. Something that was bound to happen with all the soul-searching going on.

I was in my mid twenties when I slammed the door on the spiritual (then dead-bolted it and pushed some furniture up against it), deciding I was finally old enough to declare myself an atheist.

For me, the world of the spiritual has always been, at best, fraught with nonsense – auras, oracles, star signs, soul mates and superstition. At worst, full of people taking advantage of the gullible. I’ve simply never had a frame of reference to fathom spirituality.

But was there a need to be so staunch about it all? I thought. I was at little risk of being indoctrinated into any faith, so why the fear? Why the anger? Why the harsh judgment? 

I also began to wonder if by being so close-minded I might be shutting out other things – like creativity, inspiration and faith. Elusive things that perish in the harsh world of the literal.

Just a thought. One of many that I had on retreat.

Our four-ish days were coming to an end. Four days of campfire conversations, nature and self-reflection. I wanted for nothing. Except maybe an answer to my question – what is my purpose?

And, in the nick of time, it came to me.

After days of singing, talking and speaking up, it had become clear that my purpose was to have a voice.

I mean this in both the literal and figurative sense. I needed to write more about things that actually mattered to me, I needed to embrace singing again. Regardless of whether this voice can be monotised (though fingers crossed), fostering it is integral to my happiness.

Since I’ve returned from retreat, having a voice, a mantra that might only be meaningful to me, is the driving force behind most things I do.

When I’m offered a job I think – will this job allow me to use my voice? (or does it offer enough money for me to not care – girl’s gotta eat). When I’m too embarrassed to sing at home because the neighbours will hear me, I think – if you want to have a voice, then fucking sing!

As for the whole spirituality thing, I’d like to think I’m one step closer to opening that door just a crack, just to see what’s on the other side.

Attend Susan’s Spiritually Loose Women’s Retreat